By the time I made it back to my room, the corridors felt colder.

Not in temperature. 

In memory.

Everything looked the same—the polished oak floors, the soft golden sconces, the delicate oil paintings mounted with care. 

But I was different. 

And I hated how much I could feel it.

I shut the door behind me and leaned against it for a moment, breath shallow.

You walked into this room to watch me... but if you're not careful, I won't be the one unraveling.

I hated how the words echoed, curling through my mind like smoke. He had meant it as a warning.

Or maybe a challenge. 

Either way, it had landed like a strike across skin already too sensitive to him.

You don't scare easily either.

He was right. 

I didn't. 

But Rivan Malhotra wasn't something I could explain away.
Not a puzzle I could solve in one sitting. He was a pressure point I hadn't known I had—until he pressed it.

I stepped into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash the warmth off my cheeks, the tension from my pulse.

No luck.

By the time I was curled up on the window seat in my room, city lights blinking outside like a silent audience, I knew sleep wouldn't come.

So I did what I always did when the world tilted too fast beneath my feet.

I called Meher.

She answered on the third ring, voice groggy but sharp. "Ishita? It's two a.m. Did someone die?"

"Not yet," I muttered, staring at my own reflection in the glass. "But I think someone might be killing my sense of control."

She was instantly more awake. "Okay, that sounds dangerously poetic. What happened?"

I hesitated, then whispered, "He got to me."

A pause.

"Rivan?"

I didn't reply. 

I didn't need to.

"Oh god," Meher exhaled. "What did he do?"

"Nothing," I said, but it came out too fast. "Everything. He... he just looks at me like I'm already a move he's planned for."

"And you don't like that?"

"I don't like him," I snapped.

Silence. 

Then a quiet, knowing chuckle.

"Sweetheart," Meher said, "you don't call someone at 2 a.m. because you don't like them. You call because they made your blood stir in a way that scares the hell out of you."

I closed my eyes.

That was the problem. 

It wasn't love, wasn't even lust—not yet. It was the threat of something. A spark that could become wildfire if I wasn't careful.

And I had no intention of burning.

"I need to get ahead of this," I whispered. "No more reacting. I want to know everything about him. Who he answers to. What his real stake is. Why now."

"You want to outplay him."

I smiled faintly. "I want to survive him."

.

.

.

.

I ended the call, Meher's voice still echoing in my mind like a tether to clarity.

"You don't call at 2 a.m. unless he got under your skin."

I set my phone down and stood, my bare feet cold against the marble floor. I moved to my desk, flipping open my laptop with a quiet determination. The hum of it powering up felt like the beginning of something.

For too long, I'd been the daughter they kept polished and protected—educated, elegant, and intentionally in the dark.

No more.

I typed his name into a private database my father didn't know I had access to. Rivan Malhotra. The results were sparse, even with my backdoor entry. But what little I did find only deepened the mystery. His public profile was neat, calculated: a series of strategic investments, affiliations with global finance firms, and an early departure from a prestigious London consultancy no one ever left voluntarily.

The pattern was too clean. 

Too curated.

I leaned back, arms folded, heart thudding with the thrill of the unknown. This man wasn't just powerful—he was protected. Possibly dangerous. Probably both.

And still, I wasn't afraid.

I was intrigued.

I closed the laptop slowly and walked to the window again. The city stretched beneath me, wide and ruthless. A mirror, maybe, for the world I was about to step into.

A soft knock on my door startled me.

I turned. "Yes?"

A servant peeked in. "Your father would like to see you in the study. Now."

At this hour?

I nodded, slipping on a silk wrap over my nightdress. As I made my way down the silent hallway, the weight of everything I'd learned—and everything I hadn't—wrapped around me like a cloak.

When I entered the study, Arvind Mehra was alone, swirling a glass of whisky by the fire.

"Ishita," he said, not turning around. "You're awake."

I stepped forward. "You asked for me."

"Yes." He took a sip, then finally turned to face me. "You've always been curious. But ... something's changed."

I didn't deny it. "You're right."

His eyes sharpened. "Rivan?"

I held his gaze. "You brought him in for protection. Strategy. But you didn't tell me why now. What changed?"

For a moment, he said nothing. Then "There are things even you weren't ready for. But you will be. I'm not protecting you anymore, Ishita. I'm preparing you."

"I know," I said quietly.

He studied me for a long moment. "Then prove it. Tomorrow, you'll attend the board meeting with me. Sit. Listen. Speak if you're ready. It's time."

I nodded once. "I'll be there."

As I turned to go, his voice stopped me.

"Rivan isn't your enemy. But he's not your ally either. Not yet."

I glanced back, chin raised. "Then he's like everyone else in this world."

My father gave a slow, approving smile. "Good girl."

But as I left, my pulse wouldn't slow. Not because of the meeting. Not because of the power shift.

Because I knew one thing with a clarity I couldn't ignore anymore:

Rivan Malhotra was more than a test.

He was a turning point.

And I was already walking the edge.

★

The night was thick with quiet as I slipped into my study, the house settling around me like a living thing. Every creak and whisper felt amplified, but I welcomed the solitude. This was my war room now.

Rivan Malhotra. 

The name circled in my mind like a threat wrapped in silk. I'd heard my father praise him, yet every instinct screamed caution. Who was this man really? What had he hidden beneath that calm, unshakable surface?

I powered on my laptop, fingers hesitating just a moment before diving in. I wasn't just curious—I needed to know. 

To see beyond the polished veneer.

The first few searches turned up little. 

No college records—only affiliations.

A LinkedIn that hadn't been updated in four years.

Several companies listed under his consultancy—shell firms, layered ownership structures. All tied to short-term acquisitions that vanished within a year.

No social media, no photos. 

It was as if he'd erased himself from public view.

But I wasn't about to be deterred.

I peeled back layers of digital footprints, sifting through business registrations, financial filings, news archives.

There—a faint thread. 

And then I saw it.

Asterion Holdings.

The name didn't mean much on its own, but a sudden memory flashed: years ago, my father had tried to acquire a small Mumbai firm with the same name. The deal had collapsed under mysterious circumstances, whispers of sabotage and backroom deals.

Could Rivan be the ghost behind that failed acquisition?

I dug deeper. 

Corporate filings tied Rivan to a web of shell companies, all fleeting and opaque.
No clear ownership.
No clear motive.

But something else caught my eye—a pattern of hostile takeovers, quick buyouts, ruthless restructuring. Rivan wasn't just a businessman. He was a predator, silently circling.

My heart pounded. 

If Rivan was connected to that mess, was he here to protect my family, or to dismantle it from within?

A cold knot tightened in my stomach.

I leaned back, the glow of the screen harsh in the dark room. Questions swirled: Why had my father welcomed him into our home? What did he really want? And, most unsettling—why did I feel a pull toward him I couldn't explain?

I shut the laptop slowly, every nerve on edge. 

This was far bigger than I'd imagined. 

And far more dangerous.

.

.

.

.

The hours slipped by unnoticed as I sank further into the rabbit hole.

Rivan Malhotra wasn't just a shadow in the business world—he was a ghost story whispered in closed boardrooms and behind guarded doors.

I cross-referenced everything I found about Asterion Holdings with old news clippings and leaked documents from financial watchdog forums. Slowly, a more troubling picture emerged.

There were rumors of a scandal years ago—an investigation into money laundering and offshore accounts tied to Asterion's subsidiaries. Nothing had ever stuck publicly, but the trail went cold suspiciously fast.

I found a few names linked to Rivan's inner circle—men who had suddenly disappeared from the scene after a series of "accidents" and "misfortunes." Corporate assassinations, disguised with legal precision.

My fingers trembled as I opened an encrypted message thread leaked online—a heated exchange between two executives debating how to contain the fallout of a deal gone wrong. 

One name kept recurring:
Rivan Malhotra.

He wasn't just a player.

He was a chessmaster who played dirty.

The stakes weren't just about business anymore—they were life and death.

And suddenly, the tension I'd felt earlier that night shifted. It wasn't just wariness anymore.

It was fear.

But also something darker.

A fascination.

Because if Rivan Malhotra was a storm, I wanted to learn to weather it.

Or maybe even become it.

.

.

.

.

The house was silent, swallowed by shadows and stillness. The moonlight spilled silver across the floor as I traced my fingers over the faint glow of my laptop screen one last time before shutting it down.

A sudden presence behind me made my breath hitch—too familiar, too deliberate.

"Curious, aren't you?"

I didn't turn immediately. 

His voice was low, smooth, yet edged with something dangerous. Rivan Malhotra.

"I don't like being watched," I said, finally turning, trying to keep my voice steady.

He stepped closer, the faint scent of sandalwood and something darker wrapping around me. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, locked onto mine, cutting through the veneer I'd carefully built.

"You've been digging," he said softly, almost a whisper. "Into things best left buried."

My heart pounded, but I refused to look away. "I want to know who I'm dealing with."

His gaze flickered with something—approval? amusement?—before sliding down to my lips, then back to my eyes. "And what will you do if you find out? Run? Fight? Or become part of it?"

The air between us thickened, every breath charged. I felt the heat of him so close, an unspoken challenge simmering in the silence.

"I don't run," I said, voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled—a slow, dangerous curve of his lips that promised more than words. "Good."

Then, almost impossibly, he closed the distance, his hand lightly brushing my jaw, his thumb tracing a slow path along my skin.

"You should know—some truths come at a cost. Are you willing to pay it?"

I swallowed hard, the room shrinking until it was just the two of us, caught in this fragile, fierce moment.

"Try me."

His eyes darkened, the challenge accepted.

And in that charged silence, everything between us shifted—danger, desire, and a promise that this was only the beginning.

I didn't move for a long moment after he stepped back. The air between us still crackled like static, heavy and sharp, like the moment just before lightning splits the sky.

His cologne lingered in the space he'd left behind — something dark, expensive, masculine — and far too intoxicating. My breath hitched as I dragged in air, trying to ground myself. But all I could feel was the ghost of his touch, the press of his voice, low and deliberate, still vibrating in my chest.

Some truths come at a cost.

What did that even mean? And why did it sound like a warning... and a promise?

I pressed my palm to the wall behind me, trying to anchor myself, but it was useless. My skin still burned where his fingers had brushed it. The way he'd looked at me — like he knew every secret I hadn't admitted even to myself — had left something raw and aching beneath my carefully controlled exterior.

God. 

I hated how he did that. 

How he got under my skin.
How he made me feel like I was constantly on the verge of unraveling.

Because I didn't unravel.

Not for anyone.

Not even him.

But in that moment — standing alone in the hallway, my pulse racing, my mouth still parted in disbelief — I knew something had shifted. 

Subtly, dangerously. 

The rules I'd lived by suddenly didn't feel like they applied anymore.

Not when it came to him.

He had touched a nerve I didn't know existed. And I wasn't sure whether I wanted to run from it...or run deeper into it.

I closed my eyes, pressed my head against the cool wall, and let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I had to get it together. I had to lock this feeling up, bury it beneath the thousand shields I'd spent years building.

Because Rivan Malhotra wasn't a man you allowed yourself to want.

He was a man you watched with a knife in your sleeve.

And yet...

When I finally opened my eyes, there was no denying it — the tremble in my hands, the heat still curling low in my stomach, the pulse that hadn't slowed.

Something had been set in motion between us tonight.

And I didn't know how to stop it.